


the way I feel under your command

by GwenChan



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Collars, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Control, Coping, Dom Victor Nikiforov, Dom/sub, Light BDSM, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Sexual Content, Miscommunication, Non-Graphic Smut, Office Blow Jobs, Sub Katsuki Yuuri, YOI Shit Bang 2017, problematic stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 04:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11959716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki suffers from heavy anxiety, has just been dismissed from a psychiatric ward, and is terrified by the chaotic, unforgiving world.Determined to prove his worth, he ends up working as secretary for young – and handsome – lawyer Victor Nikiforov. Victor is kind, patient, everything Yuuri could dream of. It isn’t long before their strict professional relationship evolves into something more





	the way I feel under your command

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are. After two long months and a hot summer, I'm about to post the following piece, born from a series of circumstances. It all started when my name popped out in a certain "shit list", then somebody asked me for a fic, then I discovered this small bigbang and putting all the three things together this is the result.  
> The story is heavily inspired by the movie "Secretary" by Steven Shainberg. It is about BDSM, dom/sub and sado-maso, but it is one of the best movie I've ever seen, where BDSM etiquette is respected and despite her issues the female character is strong and independent. Basically how 50 Shades Grey should've been if it was a good movie  
> A knowledge of the movie, however, is not necessary to understand and enjoy the story.  
> I have tagged all the major issues that will appear, so I assume that if you are here is because you have read the tags and decided you are willing to continue your reading.
> 
> The art that accompanies this piece is from the talented [ Yayyoi](https://yayyoi.tumblr.com)  
> Her unique style needs all the support possible.  
> The story has been betated by the lovely [Artdefines06](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Artdefines06/pseuds/Artdefines06)  
> I'm lucky to have met her.  
> The title comes from the song "Because the night" by Patty Smith.
> 
> This fanfic is dedicated to [Shiranai Atsune.](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2493318/)

**The way I feel under your command**

The sky was cloudy the day Yuuri was dismissed, a paper certificate safe in a plastic folder attesting he was, if not completely cured, at least in a better condition than he had been a year before. Sitting on the small wall that delimited the garden in front of the mental facility, with a red suitcase near his hanging legs, Yuuri was nervous.

Life inside the complex had been easy; too much, maybe.

Yuuri had always suffered from anxiety; well, from his early teenage days. He couldn’t truly remember when it started, when his mind began to wrap itself in a cocoon of paralyzing self-loathing, but what was sure was that at a certain point the sheer thrill he once got from a challenge had vanished. Fear came instead. Intrusive thoughts spread with no control like weeds in a garden: he wasn’t good enough; he would never be good enough; he would fail and that would cause a downhill spiral.

Maybe the worst thing was that no matter how easy or enjoyable something seemed at first, the moment Yuuri discovered he was actually good at it and took on the next level, anxiety came back in full force. At least, when it had been only anxiety, Yuuri had managed to keep it under control.

But at a certain point anxiety turned into panic and panic transformed in paranoia, until Yuuri started to snap more and more often against the people who sincerely cared for him. He felt like a nuisance, an unworthy parasite, and the least worthy person to ever walk this Earth. Yuuri couldn’t even bring himself to exit his room without having a rush of nausea at the image of the overwhelming world just outside the door.  
  
One day Yuuri had had a particularly violent attack and was sent to a mental institution.  
  
The experience hadn’t been that bad, in truth. The clear and rigid routine proved to be a balm for Yuuri’s troubled mind; knowing that taking decisions were up to someone else lifted a heavy weight from his shoulders. The routine was strict, with fixed hours for meals, but otherwise the inmates were given great freedom as long as they all stayed in the great room when they weren’t attending the artistic and meditation courses the structure offered. Yuuri had joined the dance course, reminiscent of the classes he had taken when he was a kid. Minako-sensei dance studio from Yuuri’s childhood was one of the few - if not the only - place where he could truly feel safe and sound. He felt himself. The hard work ballet required for perfection, the never-ending and always identical exercises, and the sheer clear rhythm of the music were all bliss to forget any troubles.

A part of him was afraid to leave the place for the old, chaotic, and unforgiving world. In the mental facility, Yuuri had also made some good friends. For example, there was a Thai boy, Phichit Chulanont, who with the force of his bubbly personality had broken the barrier Yuuri built around himself. Phichit had a kind of dependency on technology and social media, which hid something bigger, something a person wouldn’t expect after a first impression of the cheerful Thai boy. Anyway, Phichit was about to be dismissed soon too.

Yuuri clenched a hand around the trolley handle, his belongings and certificate safe inside. The other was holding his phone, vibration on and ringtone at full volume for eventual incoming calls. Among the emergency contacts, Doctor Mitchell had put her number, urging Yuuri to not be afraid to call at any moment if something ever felt wrong. Yuuri had smiled in discomfort at the offer, looking down at the new number in his contact list.

“Let’s hope I won’t need it,” he had muttered under his breath.

He didn’t like to rely on other people.

Yuuri startled when the bus came to a halt right before him, its doors opening with a soft whistle. He looked back once again to the building, a giant parallelepiped larger than higher with big windows, with a little nostalgic smile on his lips. He asked the driver how many stops before his, thanked him for the answer, and flopped down on the first empty seat next to a middle-aged Latina.

Since the bus ride would take about an hour, Yuuri thought well to plug in his headphones, open a game app and dive deep into it, the monotonous tune low in the background. The one-room flat his parents had rented for him so that he would have a place to stay once outside the mental facility was almost on the other side of the city.

His sister Mari had offered to come from Japan to help him ease into normal life, but Yuuri refused. The idea of being a bother for someone was borderline unbearable; even more for a member of his family. In addition, the memory of how badly he treated them before made him feel a twinge of guilt in his guts. Seeing Mari for a few days would only give him a homesickness with which Yuuri wasn’t sure he could deal.

*******

The building where Yuuri’s new flat was situated was fancier than expected. The outside was an ugly gray, with graffiti as high as the second floor, but once inside the ambiance was clear and even bright. Behind the front desk, a bored teenager with a face covered in pimples was mindlessly chewing gum. Yuuri could smell the strong, artificial strawberry-taste from across the desk.

“Hum, hi, there should be a key for Yuuri Katsuki. My sister must have called yesterday,” he explained to the boy. The other barely paid him any attention, simply taking a key from the many that were hanging on the opposite wall.

“First floor, the second door on the left. Trash is collected every Thursday,” the boy explained, with the face of a person who would be elsewhere if given the possibility. Yuuri thanked him nonetheless. The elevator, as he soon discovered, was broken. He glanced back to the receptionist boy, who just shrugged. Yuuri looked down at his suitcase. Well, it was small and not very heavy, and besides, he didn’t mind walking.

Once on his landing Yuuri dragged the suitcase inside, looking around. The flat was already furnished with a small kitchen, a table, and a couch that doubled as bed; no wardrobe yet. He opened the fridge: there was little food in it, but it wasn’t empty. Taking a soft peach and biting into the pulp, he figured Mari paid someone so that he wouldn’t have to do grocery shopping the very first day. In the cabinets, he found some packets of rice, canned food, and cheap instant ramen. Part of his belongings, including his laptop, were waiting in boxes piled up against a wall. He crouched next to them to read the label on each. 

  
It was strange to be free again, almost terrifying. He was a jobless former inmate who had to go back to what normal people did in their routine, like cooking meals and doing the laundry. No way that his old boss would take him back after the scene he made. Right, he needed a job as soon as possible; he couldn’t rely on his parents’ money forever. The idea made him cringe. Yuuri buried his face in his hands, fingers grasping his hair. He wondered about his future. What if he couldn’t find anything? What if nobody wanted him? What if he wasn’t good enough? What if he remained a social outcast forever? One day his family would get tired and turn its back on him. 

  
His chest and throat started to feel tight in a too familiar way. Yuuri swallowed before choking on his own spit, hands clenching around the hem of his shirt, head dizzy. He choked back tears, while breathing became difficult due to the lump stuck in his throat. Yuuri embraced his legs. His vision was starting to get blurry behind the glasses.  
Somewhere in his mind a voice was telling him to breathe, as usual. Yuuri inhaled with his nose and exhaled from his mouth, faster than he should have had. He tried to count up to eight in between in and out, now curled on the floor. His head was spinning so much. 

  
Yuuri scrambled to slide his phone open. Doctor Mitchell’s number was at the top of the contact list. Yuuri clicked on it. When it came to pushing the call button, however, he stopped. It would only take pressing the green icon to have a reassuring voice on the other side; a simple gesture to prove the certificate in the suitcase was nothing but a paper. He wasn’t ready. He would’ve never been ready. 

  
Yuuri’s body tensed as he set the phone aside. He remembered that rummaging through the cupboard he had noticed a box of tea bags. Tea had always been helpful; not only the beverage itself but the whole preparation process. 

  
While he waited for the tea to be ready, he retrieved his laptop and turned it on. He told himself he would never find a job only by waiting for one to drop from the sky.  
Moments later he was scrolling through online employment websites with his left hand curled around a steaming mug of black tea. Most of the jobs required previous experience, teamwork capacity, and abilities Yuuri didn’t possess. He had majored in Japanese literature, not exactly the most requested curriculum. 

  
The tea had long cooled down and Yuuri was starting to get discouraged again when a title attracted his attention. Whoever published it was looking for a secretary with a helpful personality and knowledge of a word processor program among the requirements. The announcement required bringing the CV directly to the office. Chewing on his lower lip, Yuuri copied the address and the contact on his phone. There were a couple of missing calls from Mari. He must have been so focused he didn’t hear the ringtone. He swallowed again and rushed to call back. 

  
Mari kept him on the phone for half an hour, and then his parents took the other half. They were overjoyed knowing he was feeling better. Was the flat to his liking? It was such a pity they couldn’t give him the welcome home he deserved. Yuuri sniffed at the image of the plates his mom would cook for him. His stomach gurgled so much at the thought he feared his family would hear it. 

  
As soon as he ended the call, Yuuri opened Google again, searching for Japanese restaurants in the area. He found four, but one had very bad reviews and one didn’t have the dish he was interested in. After a moment of indecision, Yuuri called the restaurant with the best reviews, asking if they did delivery. The person on the other side spoke a very accented English. Yuuri switched back to Japanese to ease the communication. His order would arrive in fifteen minutes, the person assured him.

It took twenty minutes.

The pork cutlet bowl Yuuri had ordered was nowhere near to the one his mom could prepare, but after not having had the dish in almost a year the man hardly noticed the difference. Instead, he chewed on that wonderful mix of meat, rice, and eggs with a little smile on his lips, letting out a satisfied sigh when he had eaten the very last bite. It warmed his stomach and made him feel full, chasing away the sense of emptiness Yuuri had been feeling since morning. It made the future look a little brighter.

*******

The day Yuuri walked to his possible new job it started raining as he stepped outside his apartment. He opened his little umbrella, trying his best to curl under it, but by the time he reached the place he was drenched in cold water to the bone. Drops rolled down his fringe onto his glasses and nose; he could feel rivulets on his nape, under the collar of his shirt, down on his back.

He closed the by-now-useless umbrella and rang the number.

“Kat- I mean, Yuuri Katsuki. I’m here from that ad,” he muttered when an anonymous, albeit feminine voice answered from the other side. There was a moment of pause before the door opened with a clack. Yuuri stepped inside. He found himself in a narrow corridor. He walked all its length up to the door at the end.

 _Nikiforov’s_ was, as he soon discovered, a small law firm comprising two rooms. One room was larger with two desks, of which only one was occupied. The second, Yuuri supposed, must be Nikiforov personal office, situated behind a closed door with a golden target on it.

Yuuri shook the umbrella in discomfort. He glanced to the person s at the desk, a pretty woman with red hair and an undercut. He cleared his throat to attract her attention.

“Excuse me,” he called again.

The woman lifted her gaze. She checked him out from head to toe, lips quirking up in a knowing smile.

“Here for the job interview? That door!” she said, giving direction with her left pointer.

Yuuri thanked her.

“No prob. I’m Milla, by the way.”

Yuuri knocked at the door once. From the other side came a muffled “come in”. Yuuri glanced back at Milla, who nodded once to give him the green light.  
As Yuuri quietly walked into the room his breath hitched in his throat. 

  
Behind the desk, there was a gorgeous, _gorgeous_ , man with fine features: strong jaw, strong nose, a maybe too spacious forehead and a silver fringe that Yuuri didn’t doubt required a large amount of work every morning to fall just right. A jacket that would probably cost Yuuri ten years of salary was hanging from the leather-chair’s back. 

Yuuri swallowed. Of course, he swallowed, when he was before such fine piece of a lawyer who surely had every judge and every person wrapped around his little finger. _Victor Nikiforov_ read the golden plate on the desk right before the man, who was now looking at him in wait. Luckily he didn’t seem bothered by having been interrupted.

“What can I do for you?” he simply asked. 

  
“I, I’m here for that job as a secretary,” Yuuri muttered, fishing his CV from under his raincoat. He regretted not having put it into a plastic folder, as the paper he was now handing to Victor was all ragged and humid. The heavy rain had washed away part of the ink, transforming Yuuri’s photo in the right corner in a colored blur. Yuuri kept his eyes low, twisting his now free hands. For a while, there was only the sound of shuffling paper and Victor’s breath or occasional “hmm”. From outside the window came the street’s noises, people chatting in the distance and the occasional rumbling of cars traversing the road. The rain was still hitting the glass, a repetitive and rhythmic tapping sound on which Yuuri focused to keep his anxiety at bay. 

  
All of sudden he felt very self-conscious. He became aware of his full, pink-tinted cheeks, and the way the blue frame of his glasses cut his face. Not to talk about his messy hair: he regretted not having gelled it. 

  
Also, his clothes were a disaster, a pair of old jeans and a big comfy sweater that, Yuuri noticed only now with a deep horror, was still showing the shadow of an old stain. He started fidgeting, glancing every so often at his CV in Victor's hands  
  
Too deep in his own thought to truly care about the questions Victor asked him, he answered them mechanically; something about his level of knowledge of the Office packet and similar word processor and data sheet programs; his previous working experience; his study career; why he wanted the job. Yuuri tried his best to answer all this without revealing too much of his dark past, sure that the moment Victor discovered about his mental problems, he would give the job to someone else. Of course. Of all the people exiting each year from a mental facility, only a minimum percentage managed to reintegrate into society and to be independent. Someone who hadn’t the luck of having a supporting family even ended up homeless or returned to the asylum, as it was now the only environment they could live in.

Yuuri’s nails bit into flesh. No matter how good his references could be, no matter how well he could present himself, his anxiety would always be a stain on his reputation.

“What did you do last year?” Victor asked at a point. Yuuri paled, head spinning for coming up with a nice story, something that wouldn’t brand him as simply _crazy._

“I, I took a, a year off for a health problem,” he stuttered.

Well, technically, it was true. He had totally, utterly, completely burnt out. But probably a whole year off for health reasons wasn’t the best presentation. Victor must be thinking about a kind way to tell him he wasn’t the person he was looking for. He was the person nobody was looking for.

“Can you start tomorrow?”  
Victor’s voice came all but unexpected.  
“I – hum.”

“Tomorrow at nine, would it be ok?” Victor continued.  
“I, yes, totally,” Yuuri forced his voice out. How did people say? When you see an opportunity, seize it?  


Outside it had stopped raining. It was only when he was home that Yuuri noticed he had forgotten his umbrella in Victor’s office. 

*******

  
Working for Victor turned out to be nice. The ambiance was small, calm, with only two other employees, the daily presence of the clients Victor met in his office, and the occasional rings of the phone on Yuuri’s desk. Yuuri also had the buzz from his smartphone as background noise: almost all the messages he received were from his family.

And Phichit.

His friend even called him a few days after the job interview, while Yuuri was walking down the street.

When Phichit had given him his Skype contact Yuuri didn’t actually believe he would call. That was why when his mobile started buzzing from an incoming call he panicked and pushed the “off” button. Few seconds later there was a new call, the ID unmistakably clear. Yuuri stared at it, as if he was seeing an alien. With a sigh as an apology for Phichit, he closed the call yet again.  
He would soon come to know how persistent the Thai boy would prove in keeping in touch  
At the fourth call, Yuuri resigned. 

  
“Hello?”  
“Hi, Yuuri? Oh, sorry, I thought you were home. Should I call you later?” 

  
Phichit all but showered him with a rush of questions, his face almost pressed against the phone screen.  
“Phichit!” Yuuri snapped to get his friend attention. Phichit gave him a sheepish smile.  
“Sorry. I got excited. So, can you talk?”  
“Yes. Just give me a moment. There’s a coffee shop with a WI-FI connection around the corner,” Yuuri answered, already walking on autopilot toward the place. He discovered it a couple days prior, a morning he woke up too early and had to wait for Victor’s law firm to open. The atmosphere was cozy, but the food wasn’t that great. They had free WI-FI though and their latte was good for the price.

  
Yuuri ordered one for him, asking for the WI-FI password, before setting down at a table far from the front door. There was a sticky stain on the wooden surface. Yuuri set the phone against the napkin dispenser, the front camera in his direction. He bent over to be in the frame.  
“There you are!” Phichit welcomed him back “So, what’s the news?” He asked.  
Yuuri did a side-glance, then non-committedly thanked the waiter who had just brought his latte. He took a sip to buy some time.  
“Yuuri!” Phichit whined.  
“Ok, ok. I found a job!”  
Phichit beamed with pride from behind the screen, his blurry face stretched in a big smile.  
“Yuuri, that’s wonderful! Where? Is it nice?” he asked. Yuuri drew circles on the glass brim.  
“In a lawyer studio. Yes, it’s nice. Very nice, actually. And the boss ...”  
Phichit leaned forward, an interested grin spreading on his face. “Yes?”  
Yuuri bit his lips, gazing down at his intertwined fingers. Phichit pouted.  
“C’mon, spill the beans!” he half-huffed, half-pleaded. Yuuri shrugged.  
“Well, the boss is kinda -” Yuuri began, fidgeting and glancing aside, a finger readjusting his glasses that kept sliding down his nose.  
“Cute?” Phichit wondered.  
“I would say handsome,” Yuuri corrected. “He can’t be much older than me. He has these blue eyes. And this smile and these perfect teeth!”  
Phichit chuckled at Yuuri’s dreamy tone. Yuuri blushed. There was a rustle, the sound of something light falling on the carpeted floor, and the Thai boy momentarily disappeared from the screen. When he re-appeared he had a chubby, bronze-coloured hamster on his right shoulder.  
“Wow, Yuuri, you like him a lot! What’s his name?”  
“Victor. Victor Nikiforov.”  
“Russian origins?” Phichit questioned, caressing the hamster’s fur, now in his lap.  
“I guess. It’s not like I can search him on Facebook or something like that,” Yuuri considered out loud.  
“Why not? I can do it for you,” Phichit offered. Yuuri frantically waved his hands. While still at the mental facility Phichit had told him stories about his hacker-like and virtual bloodhound abilities; though Yuuri had never had a hands-on demonstration, he didn’t doubt his friend’s word.  
“No, please! Don’t do anything!” He warned, peering at his wristwatch. It was almost seven thirty and he still had to shop for groceries.  
“Why?” Phichit whined, lower lip pouting out a bit and brow furrowed in a heart clenching expression. Yuuri wouldn’t have been fooled. 

  
“It’s creepy!” he underlined for precision sake. “Really, I mean that. Anyway, I have to go.”  
They said their goodbyes. Yuuri was the one to end the call. He paid for his latte and exited into the warm spring evening. 

Well, the fact that he had prohibited Phichit from googling Victor Nikiforov’s name didn’t mean he couldn’t do it. Besides, he highly doubted that his best friend would’ve respected his will. So, feeling like a bit like a criminal, Yuuri typed _Victor Nikiforov_ in Google search bar, glancing over his shoulder in case someone would appear from thin air to expose him. The flat stood silent and empty as always.

For once Google wasn’t that helpful. Well, apparently the Nikiforovs were a wealthy Russian family that built a small empire in construction machinery manufacturing. Yuuri learnt that Victor wasn’t bound to inherit the family business. At age ten, with a talent for figure skating that could be already called genius, in a country that still valued the sport, it seemed like a better career. An invalidating injury put a stop to the dream before it blossomed.

Victor had a quite active Instagram page. Half the posted pictures were of a big, cheerful poodle. It reminded Yuuri of the one he had, only bigger. The sudden death of Yuuri's toy poodle had been one of the causes of his mental breakdown, sending him in a downright spiral of self-hate for not having visited home more often. A year later the wound still hurt but in a duller way. Having a job surely helped him in not dwelling too much on the past.

  
  
Yuuri even started to go to the gym after work. Well, it was Victor’s fault.

One Monday Victor looked at Yuuri with a critical eye for such a long time Yuuri began to wonder if Victor was displeased with his work. He had missed a couple of grammar mistakes in a quite important mail, and on Thursday he was late because the bus didn’t show up. On Friday he knocked down Victor’s hot coffee on his desk. He had looked in horror at the liquid drenching the documents Victor was reading.  
“You look like a little pig!” Victor said instead. Maybe it didn’t help that Yuuri had just wrinkled his nose sniffing. The statement hit Yuuri hard. The corner of his lips twitched in indecision between a pout and a false giggle. He should be offended. The adjective resonated in the air around his head like an annoying fly, but Victor didn’t say that as if he meant it as an offense; more like a matter-of-fact. His tone was indeed neutral, with just a hint of enthusiastic chirp, the same as when he commented the weather. And just like when he talked about the weather, Victor let the subject fall with a smile and a wave before disappearing behind his office door. Yuuri adjusted his sweater over his belly that was protruding a bit from the waistband of his comfy trousers. Saying that he was one hundred percent pleased with his body would be a lie. Moreover, if he had to find a pattern, his rising in weight always coincided with the moments his anxiety was at its peak.

  
The very same evening he stood before the bathroom mirror in just his undergarment, forcing himself to look at the fat on his stomach and around his legs. Whitish stretch marks expanded from his navel to his sides and on his thighs. Yuuri poked them with a sigh. There laid the result of years spent gaining and losing weight according to his mood and the level of stress his life provided, which had shot all the way up since Yuuri left the comfort of his hometown. In the mental hospital strict eating hours, healthy food, and the occasional dance lessons had helped him in getting back in shape. However, as soon as he was dismissed the weight of the world had come back full force.

Now two weeks of comfort eating had been enough for losing shape again. Well, Yuuri had had his beloved pork cutlet bowl already three times, plus he kept a supply of chocolate bars in the first drawer of his desk. Milla had seen him munch on them more than once, after the majority of phone calls.

Yuuri wasn’t truly fat yet, just a little bit chubby. But he couldn’t deny that his thighs were big and soft and that they rubbed together when he walked; his face was round, almost childish; to not to talk about his belly. His dad always said Yuuri had taken from his mother.

However, contrary to his mother, Yuuri wasn’t always that comfortable in his own skin after he had gained some weight. He furrowed and the Yuuri in the mirror did the same.

Luckily he was an expert in dieting and coming back to shape. The result didn’t take much time to show, courtesy of a stricter diet, physical exercise exchanged for comfort food to relieve his stress, and taking the habit of walking to work.

His loss of weight reflected on Yuuri’s clothes; if before the clothes were just baggy, now they were truly several sizes too big.

  
Yuuri was already packing his stuff at the end of the daily 9 to 5 when Victor called him, standing in the frame of his personal office. Yuuri wasn’t used yet to be called by his first name by a stranger, especially by his boss, but Milla told him it was Victor’s habit.  
“It’s a cultural thing, you see,” she explained during a lunch break. Yuuri usually ate at his desk from a bento box he prepared in the morning, preferring the quiet of the office than the chaos of the nearest eating-place at noon. Sometimes Milla, who had seemed very interested in Yuuri’s “cute” lunch-box, kept him company. They spent the time chatting and answering the eventual mails of people asking for an appointment or concerning legal quarrels. Milla Babicheva was Russian like Victor, but coming from a different town, and had known Victor from a quite long time now.  
Yuuri finished rearranging the papers on his desk, switched the computer off and checked that he hadn’t forgotten anything before turning to face Victor.  
“Yes, sir?” he asked, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack. Victor was always a little too close for Yuuri’s liking, a little too much expansive with him. From the first days of work, he had been extremely helpful, a thing Yuuri had shied from in embarrassment.  
“Do you know Rubenstein’s?”  
Yuuri nodded. It was one of the fanciest clothing shops in town; it was impossible not to know it, not with all the advertisement they had put around town lately. The prices weren’t as high as some other high fashion brands, but surely it wasn’t something your everyday employee could afford.  
Victor beamed. A moment after he had fished a visa from his wallet. “Wonderful! So tomorrow I want you to go there and shop for a nice suit and some shirts and I guess a couple ties. Don’t worry, I called them, they’ll help you with everything,” Victor went on. Then, since Yuuri didn’t show any sign to take the visa – of course he couldn’t take his boss’ visa – he gently grabbed his right hand, palm up, and closed Yuuri’s fingers around the card.  
“Now that you’ve lost some weight, your clothes are too baggy, right? You need new ones.”  
“I can’t accept,” Yuuri babbled. That must be a test. It must be the genre of on-work test where behind an apparent normal situation a personal valuation is hiding. Yuuri’s mind started spinning full speed. His hands broke cold sweat. There must be a right and a wrong answer, but both accepting and refusing could be interpreted in a positive and negative way. Taking the visa and pass for a gold-digger? Not taking it and risking to appear ungrateful? What if the wrong answer cost him the job. Well, the possibility wasn’t even that unlikely.  
“Yuuri, have you understood?” Victor’s question came to snap Yuuri back to reality. Yuuri stared back.  
“Sorry, I zoned out. Please accept my apologies. What were you saying?”  
“I say you can accept and you don’t have to worry about money. Consider it as a loan.”  
Well, that was more like it. Yuuri dared to tighten his grip on the visa. Shyness forced him to divert his gaze as he eventually put the card in the inside pocket of the backpack, but glancing once he could see Victor smirking. No, smiling with satisfaction.

  
The day after Yuuri knew why he never stepped inside a shop like “Rubenstein’s” apart from evident cash-related reasons. Apparently, Victor had informed the shop staff of Yuuri’s appearance as a personal shopper welcomed him with a “Yuuri Katsuki? I was waiting for you.”  
Yuuri hadn’t even the time to answer – or to say anything at all – because she was gently pushing him toward the changing rooms, picking up clothes from the hangers and shelves as they passed by. Yuuri soon found himself with arms full of clothes normally he would not even dare to touch. Let alone try on.  
It took quite all Yuuri’s self-control to not check the price tags and freak out for the figure he would surely see. The first piece of clothing he tried on was a tailored two-piece suit. It felt amazing to the touch, cotton mixed with smooth silk, in a deep navy blue. Yuuri would appreciate it even more if he had stopped to think about how much it cost. The personal shopper had a totally different opinion.

“Perfect!” she clapped her hands. She then proceeded to explain all kind of fashion rules Yuuri didn’t even imagine exist. Which suit matched well with which shirt; which shoes were a must; the subtle difference between formal, formal chic and casual chic. Being fashionable was surely tiring. Yuuri had already forgotten half the things the woman was saying a moment after having heard them. He had barely the time to look himself in the mirror before being pressed to try on something new. Well, that was the less evil. It was still better than continuing changing between two suits that in Yuuri’s eyes were identical because the personal shopper couldn’t decide which nuance of anthracite looked better on him. It was a whirlwind of clothes, three-button single-breasted jackets, suit jackets in tweed, cotton, wool, and silk. Button-down shirts followed, in light blue and pearl grey. Then it came the ties’ turn, both solid colored and with patterns, some of which Yuuri would define as hazardous at best. When he thought they were finished, the woman proved him wrong with a pile of turtlenecks in various colors. And then there were shoes, of course.

Four hours later Yuuri was barely aware of his name, with a huge debt on his shoulders, tired like he had run a marathon and with a new closet.

Well, he had to admit he liked the idea.

*******

The Yuuri who walked to work dressed in a fine, designer suit had almost an aura of confidence. The jacket had a slim fit cut that prevented his back from bending over too much, keeping it straight and proud. Under the suggestion of the personal shopper, Yuuri had also gelled his hair back; the strange combination of such hairdo with his blue-frame glasses truly made him look more professional, the kind of person other people would take seriously.

Milla made a long, low whistle when Yuuri entered. “Looking gorgeous, uh” she complimented, a tease in her voice that made Yuuri’s cheeks tint pink. Victor himself once whistled his appreciation.

If only new clothes could be enough to cancel all his self-doubts or to make him truly confident. Instead, it was roulette. There were quiet days when the rare phone calls were short and polite and pretty much all Yuuri had to do was copying handwritten letters and document in digital format. On others days, however, it was a hell of angry phone calls with people pretending an appointment for the next day. More than once Yuuri had had to excuse himself to the toilet, where he had cried his frustration out in the safety of the bathroom stall.

If possible he left the phone ringing until Milla picked it up in solidarity.

***

Yuuri was about a month into working for Victor when he was summoned to his office for the first time for a different reason from bringing him coffee or taking some documents.

Yuuri braced himself for hearing about how useless he was, how he could never do anything right. Only that none of that came.

Victor gestured for him to sit down. He didn’t seem angry, only concerned.

“You suffer from anxiety, am I right?” Victor said, as soon as Yuuri had obeyed.

Yuuri grabbed the cloth of his expensive trousers. His palms were sweaty against the fabric. He glanced quickly at Victor. If he had started begging not to be fired he would’ve touched the bottom pit of humiliation.  
“How do you know?” he asked instead.  
“Well, it isn’t so difficult to understand. You are shaking anytime I call you here to discuss something. You’re shaking now.”  
Yuuri bowed his head in apology. “I’m trying to stop. I assure you,” he blabbered.  
“That’s why you had a year off,” Victor interrupted him. Yuuri stared in horror, now with nails digging into flesh. Anxiety was bad, yes, but he wasn’t the only person in the world suffering from it. Having been in a mental facility, on the other hand, that was the kind of bad reputation society couldn’t forgive you for.  
“I’ve done some research. You had a mental breakdown about a year ago. You made quite a scene.” Victor went on. No pity. No tactfulness. Yuuri tried to reply but Victor made a sign he wasn’t finished.  
“You were also a young promise of figure skating in your home country, but you stopped as soon as you entered the junior division.”  
Yuuri chewed on his bottom lip, silence as heavy as clear words of admission. Just how deep had Victor dug into his past? He hadn’t put on a pair of skates in ages. Sometimes he was even able to convince himself he had never skated at all. Maybe in another life he and Victor would’ve been rivals. A life when Yuuri hadn’t thrown up the moment he stepped on the ice during his first big competition, the experience so humiliating he stopped skating all at once. A life where a broken leg didn’t stop Victor’s promising career.  
Well, that was it. For about month it had been nice to have a job, a sense of purpose, nice clothes. A salary. Yuuri braced himself for the sack.  
“I want to help you.”  
Wait. What was happening? Victor’s was now leaning toward him, a hand on his knee. Yuuri gulped. He felt cold sweat beading his nape. Victor was handsome and so, so close. Yuuri could almost feel the warmth of his lips. There wasn’t judgment in Victor’s eyes; now serious, although they often beamed with enthusiasm.  
“How?” Yuuri managed to ask, voice hoarse in his throat. Victor’s fingers had a feather-like touch but were so heavy. They rooted Yuuri to reality. Their presence was so real that Yuuri had to focus on them, on the moment; that little touch prevented him from zoning out.  
“For now just know you can always come to me for any problem.”  
A pause, interrupted by only a vague muttering coming from Yuuri in half-acceptance, then Victor reprised: “Now, for something completely different, you truly learn to answer the phone,” chirped Victor, throwing an old fashioned phone in Yuuri lap. It hit his knee, just where a moment before Victor’s fingers had been.  
“Ok. Now pretend it’s ringing and answer,” Victor instructed, oozing enthusiasm. Yuuri looked at him in confusion. Well, he always had a quirk for drama, but this was totally different. He poked the shiny black speaker as if it was some kind of strange snake he didn’t want to enrage.  
Then he startled. Victor had just started imitating a phone ring with his voice. “The phone is ringing,” he informed Yuuri, before resuming the false ringing. Yuuri carefully brought the speaker to his ear. The ring stopped at once.  
“Hello, this, this is Nikiforov’s. How can, can I help you?” he mumbled, leaving sweaty prints on the phone’s plastic. Even if it had been only a pretending, Yuuri had an urging desire for a chocolate bar. He sank his nails into his palms.

“If you must, torment the couch,” Victor commented before such behavior. Yuuri slowly uncurled his fingers, brushing just slightly against the couch’s leather. “Now, try again, without stuttering.”

The fake phone started ringing again. Yuuri scrambled to answer.

“Hello, this is, is Nikiforov’s. How can I help - you?”

“Faster. They don’t have all day.”

Yuuri inhaled deeply, placing a hand on his stomach as a reminder to breathe from there. Victor gave him a reassuring smile. Yuuri brought the speaker to his ear for the third time.

“Hello, this is Nikiforov’s. How, how can I help you?”

Victor made Yuuri repeat the sequence until his voice became strong and sure, the response maybe not yet embedded in his brain, but surely more automatic than it had been before. When the false phone rang for the last time that day, Yuuri’s voice started normal, but shifted mid sentence in a service voice, false cheerfulness pouring from his mouth.

“Was it good?” Yuuri asked, looking hopeful.

Victor put index and middle fingers under Yuuri’s chin and lifted it. “Perfect.”

Yuuri heart thumped against his ribcage.

*******

Living alone had its advantages; among those advantages was that if you weren’t waiting for some shipment or guest, you could masturbate pretty much whenever you wanted. No fear of your parents, or a roommate, or a doctor walking in while in the act.  
Yuuri let out a deep sigh as he slid on the bathroom floor, back against the closed door. His sweatpants and boxer were already pooled around his ankles. His half-hard sex peeked from under the hem of his T-shirt. The ceramic floor was cold against his ass. Yuuri tilted his head back as he spread his legs further and started palming himself.  
Yuuri moved his free hand over his knee and inner thigh, where Victor’s fingers had been, so soft and yet so strong. Yuuri half-lidded his eyes, mouthing around the fantasy of those fingers around his sex. No doubt they would do wonderful things. He bit his lips to not whimper. Victor had such beautiful hands, slim and well defined. How they curled around a fountain pen or a smartphone. Long, pale fingers embedded with elegance. Pure perfection.  
Yuuri had intended to take it slow, indulge in the moment, but soon he found himself thrust into his fist harder and harder.  
He fluttered his eyes shut, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he jerked off. He recalled the warmth of Victor’s breath against his own lips. He had no doubt that kissing him would be heaven.  
Yuuri came through his fingers with a little groan, flesh flushed and sex slowly subsiding to his orgasm. He cleaned his hand on the underwear fabric.  
Well, he had a problem; a problem with a name and a surname. And silver hair and long, lovely fingers.

***

Yuuri had been working for Victor for two months now. It was almost summer and apart from the occasional bulge in his pants he had to hide, things for Yuuri were nicer than expected. He had a gorgeous new wardrobe, he had gotten back into shape, his boss was gorgeous, hot, helpful and smart.  
Well, maybe a little controlling. Maybe more than a little; and with a quirk with treating Yuuri like a precious, priceless doll.  
Deep inside Yuuri loved all of this. He loved seeing Victor’s satisfied smile when he completed a task to perfection, whether answering a call in an impeccable manner or preparing the best cup of coffee. Sometimes the reward was the best thing Yuuri could aspire to, something he used to fear and now craved: Victor’s touch. It sent a jolt of electricity down his spine every time. Whether it was a pat on the shoulder or having Victor’s chin gently posed on the top of his head as the other man leaned forward to peer at what Yuuri was writing, Yuuri felt desire bubbling under his skin. 

  
Victor never asked, he always ordered but did it in a way for which Yuuri didn’t notice if not later.

Yuuri did some research.  
“Victor, can we talk?”  
Recently Yuuri had taken the habit of calling him _Sir_ during work, even more, if being ordered around. Being called by his first name was instead something Victor himself had encouraged. Yuuri wasn’t comfortable with the idea; resorting to it meant he wanted to be treated on the same level.  
“Of course. Let me finish reading these last five pages and I’m all yours.”  
Yuuri nodded, sitting quietly before Victor on the other side of the desk, with fingers intertwined in his lap. He focused on his breath, preparing in his mind what he soon would say out loud. Victor was a quick reader.  
“So, what did you want to talk about?” he asked setting the papers aside. Yuuri took a deep breath.  
“I’ve done some research,” he began glancing toward Victor who hummed. “Your gifts, your interest in my life, the way you ask me to do things. Victor, do you want me to be a sub? Your sub?” 

It was a leap in the dark. Surely Yuuri had noticed how the way Victor treated him wasn’t extended to others, like Milla for example. Still, it was a conjecture to which he arrived by putting together different dots of an unclear picture. He had prepared himself all day since the morning to gather enough courage to ask what he had just asked. He spoke fast, more for fear words would die in his throat than out of real confidence.

  
The moment Yuuri had posed the question he felt much lighter. Certainly, the idea of facing a possible negative outcome made his palms sweaty and his throat tight, but not as much as dwelling on the scenarios his mind could produce.

Victor didn’t answer right away. The silence was heavy, long enough for Yuuri to start doubting he had interpreted things in the right way. Probably Victor was only being kind - didn’t he say the new clothes were a loan? - and the orders justified by the environment. Victor was his boss after all. What if him, Yuuri, was the one to have crossed boundaries? Maybe he could still back off.  
“Only if you’re ok with it,” came instead Victor’s answer. Yuuri straightened a bit. He had studied and he had questions.  
“Will you order me around?”  
“Within the limits you’ll decide.”  
“Will you collar me?”  
“Only if you want and are comfortable with it.”  
“Will you call me names? Do I have to call you _Sir_?” Yuuri’s questioning continued.  
“Only if you want. And no, if you don’t want to.”  
That would be the least problem. Overall it wasn’t a decision to be taken with a light heart, no matter how soft Yuuri’s condition as sub could be. Thus he had come prepared. Yet he couldn’t deny that the moments he had felt better in the past days were under Victor’s command. It lifted something heavy and slimy from Yuuri’s back.  
In the mental facility, his life had been milestoned by a strict schedule, and all Yuuri had had to worry about had been taking his pills and attending therapy sessions. The routine was bliss because it didn’t give him time to dwell on possible past mistakes till they became unbearable; nor did it give him time to commit errors in the first place.  
Now the promise that was lying before Yuuri was to have that back, to stop worrying for a while. He needed to blame someone else. What he had read during his research still left him dubious, as the relationships described often didn’t seem very healthy; but at the same time, nothing had equaled the sense of pride in Yuuri’s stomach when Victor complimented him for a well-done task. Who was he kidding? In his eyes, Victor was a deity and Yuuri would kneel before him at a snap of his fingers.  
“I don’t want a collar, for now. I don’t mind calling you Sir. For pet names, I prefer to decide case by case. No denigration, please.”  
Yuuri let out a relieved sigh with the last condition. He had long and thoroughly reflected on the subject, asking himself what he might like, what he liked for sure, and what he wasn’t yet ready to experiment. Victor seemed to have read his mind as his first question was: “Green light for anything else?”

“As long as no humiliation is involved.”

They discussed the _yes, no,_ and _if_ some more, with Victor all willing to listen to Yuuri’s doubts and insecurities and provide explanations when needed. Nobody mentioned anything sexual. From what Yuuri had read the relationship between a submissive and a dominant often intertwined and overlapped with sadomasochist practices, so much that the borders between the two realities blurred into each other. While they were speaking Yuuri almost expected Victor to bring up the subject, but instead the other hadn’t; nor was Yuuri brave enough to do it himself. The embarrassment would be too great for his little confidence to take. On the other hand, the number of times he recently had jerked off thinking about erotic scenarios involving Victor specifically spoke for themselves. A part of his mind was hoping for a similar evolution. Yuuri relegated it in the depth of his lewder desires.

*******

The whole new arrangement started slow, to the point Yuuri barely noticed any difference from what things were before; apart from the new label.

And the fact that Victor had begun to decide the clothes Yuuri had to wear for the day. His phone call now doubled as morning alarm for him. Yuuri slid his phone open, repressing a yawning and rubbing the grogginess from his eyes as he set brought the phone to his ear.

“Good morning, Yuuri,” Victor greeted him from the other side. There was no trace of sleepiness in his voice. Yuuri couldn’t suppress a yawn in the end, stretching his legs before him, curling his toes until they popped.

“Were you dressing?” Victor resumed. Yuuri hummed. “Almost. I have to take a shower before,” he pointed out, refraining from revealing he hadn’t yet stepped out of bed,

“You should wear the dark grey trousers, the slim fit ones. They do lovely things to your calves.”

Yuuri giggled, framing his phone between cheek and shoulder. Those slacks were Victor’s favorites, judging at how often his final choice ended up on them; and Yuuri had to admit he loved them himself. He loved how the light wool felt on his skin and the way they enveloped his butt just right.

Visible clothing had been only the beginning. Then Yuuri had come home one day to find a package waiting for him in his mailbox, Victor being the sender. It was rather anonymous, a simple, rectangular shaped box that left no hint about the content. For a moment Yuuri feared Victor had sent him some kind of kinky toys, the genre discreet packages are made for. He gingerly lifted the box’s lid.  
Well, it wasn’t a kinky toy.  
Still, it wasn’t very _usual_ either.  
It was a male corset, satin mixed with lace in deep, night blue. Velvet stripes traced the hem. A series of clasps decorated one side, doubling as a fastening. Yuuri removed the garment from the box to better examine it in the light. It was indeed an exquisite piece of clothing, details enriching it without being cheesy. Yuuri didn’t doubt it must cost as much as any of his new clothes, if not more.  
Well, he had never said anything against wearing a corset. He decided to try it on.  
Actually doing it took him a few attempts, as the side fastening wasn’t that easy to do.  
When the last clasp was finally closed Yuuri examined his reflection in the mirror. The corset had a little curve silhouette, though not accentuated as its female-meant counterpart. It embraced Yuuri’s waist up to right under his nipples, exalting a figure Victor had recently defined as graceful. Yuuri brushed a finger against the smooth fabric, the soft silk, and the delicate lace. The corset was well cut. It squeezed just a bit, but not so much to impede breathing. Certainly, it wasn’t a garment meant to be worn all day. That little bit of pressure was yet enough for Yuuri to not forget it was there. Just like Victor’s touch, it kept him grounded. It helped him to focus on nothing but the present.  
The morning after Victor didn’t mention the corset on picking out Yuuri clothes for the day. He hadn’t to: Yuuri knew better.  
Indeed he had confirmation he made the right move when Victor casually slid his fingers under Yuuri’s shirt as Yuuri was copying a letter from paper to digital.  
“Very good, Yuuri,” he purred against Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri struggled to keep a straight face, a thing that was part of the whole game. The importance of maintaining calm and composure no matter the circumstances. Milla feigned indifference.  
“Thank you, Sir,” he replied. His voice had just a slight hesitation. Victor didn’t care.

Yuuri felt calm. He felt sexy too.

The corset was only the beginning. Victor had a talent, Yuuri soon discovered, to build things up, bringing Yuuri onto the next level only when he was sure Yuuri had adjusted to the previous step.

*******

One day someone came rushing into the studio, a brash teenager far too young to be there who ignored every single warning from Yuuri that Victor was busy and didn’t want to be bothered.  
“Stop whining!” The stranger snapped. “I’m a friend” - he seemed to choke on the word as if it had a bad taste – “I don’t need a fucking appointment!” he snarled, before saying his hello to Milla who reciprocated.

“Long time not to see, Yurochka,” she greeted him, smiling through his protest not to call him like that. “I’m not a fucking kid anymore!” he snarled, stomping to Victor’s office and kicking the door open.

“Yurochka?” Yuuri asked Milla. She explained that the angry teenager’s real name was Yuuri – curious, isn’t it? – but people called him Yura. “Or Yurochka, when I’m in the mood for teasing him. It’s so damn fun,” she explained with an evil grin. As she clarified the Plisetskys and the Nikiforovs families had known each other for a while now and Yura was in the US for a school exchange. Apparently, the boy had got into some troubles in a brawl in a club where shouldn’t have been as a minor. “And now he needs Victor’s help, though he would prefer to bite his own tongue than admitting that.”

Before leaving Plisetsky checked Yuuri out from head to toe with lips pursued in a disappointed expression. “So you’re Victor’s new toy? You better enjoy it as long as it lasts. Don’t think you’re special. You’re nothing extraordinary. He will get tired of you soon,” he predicted with a cruel smirk.

Yuri Plisetsky wasn’t the only one doubtful about whatever Yuuri had with Victor. Mari was too. To be honest, Yuuri would’ve preferred to keep it secret from his sister, claiming he was an adult man who could have a private life, thank you very much. However, Mari knew him too well for Yuuri to be able to keep a secret for her for too long.

“This Victor seems kind of bossy, you know,” she commented one time that Yuuri might have said a bit too much. Victor had ordered him around all day, giving him almost no break and Yuuri had been able to comply to every request without failing once. He had felt so proud. He hastily shook his head. “Oh, not at all,” he tried to re-assure Mari, waving his hands before his face. In the laptop screen, she squinted her eyes, trying to catch a peek behind Yuuri’s shoulders.

“Is that a corset?” she asked, brow furrowed. Yuuri groaned. He had taken the corset off as soon as he had come home and he had just thrown the garment on the still half-made sofa bed. Then Mari had called in the late evening.

“No, your eyes are playing tricks on you!” he exclaimed, closing the laptop before Mari could call his lie out.

Phichit too didn’t seem enthusiastic of the arrangement Yuuri had described, albeit refraining from giving too many details. As much as he knew how supportive Phichit was, Yuuri wasn’t sure his friend could understand. If asked Yuuri himself wouldn’t have been able to explain why he liked so much being a sub, being Victor’s sub. How important it was for him.

“He hasn’t hurt you, right?” Phichit asked, a worried look on his face. Yuuri shook his head. In that moment his phone started ringing from a new incoming call.

“I must go, have a good day,” Yuuri said goodbye to his friend. A moment after he was greeting Victor on the phone.  
“Speaking with someone?” Victor asked as a first thing. 

“Yeah, a friend,” Yuuri answered.  
“Well, that’s good.”  
Despite his words, Victor didn’t sound very thrilled for the news. For a fraction of a second Yuuri almost pictured him pouting.  
“Wait, are you jealous?” Yuuri teased him, skimming the menu to see the offer of both hot and cold drinks. The pastries page looked interesting too.  
“A bit. Can you blame me, Yuuri?” Victor lamented.  
Yuuri hooked two fingers in his shirt collar, underneath which one in leather was hiding. It was nothing more than a stripe with a buckle; no lock and Yuuri could pretty much take it off whenever he wanted. Something that happened when he wore low collared T-shirt or was home alone. It was a Saturday, so he wasn’t wearing the corset. He felt the absence.  
“Phichit’s just a friend.”  
“I know. Pardon my jealousy. Where are you?” Victor changed the subject. Yuuri traced circles on the table.  
“In a coffee shop. Good WI-FI.”  
He gestured toward the waitress who had approached to sign he wasn’t yet ready to order. The next Victor’s question came just as expected.  
“What were you going to order?”  
“A green tea,” Yuuri answered without thinking too much. Then it came to him he might have been too straightforward for his condition as sub. “If you like, of course,” he hastily added. He could almost hear the sound of Victor’s pleased smile.  
“You learn quickly. Green tea is good,” Victor conceded. Yuuri thanked him, pointing at the drink on the menu to the waitress. He mouthed his thank you to her. Meanwhile, Victor had resumed asking: “What about food?”  
Yuuri glanced the menu once again. Some pastries were indeed mouth-watering, especially now that he was trying to maintain a healthy diet. “Is there something tasty? Have some idea?” Victor insisted.  
“My ideas don’t matter,” he replied, immersing himself in his role of sub. It was like putting on an old, comfortable sweater that hugged him just right.

“Do they have raspberry pie?” Victor asked after a pause as if he had put a thorough thought in the choice of the dessert.  
Yes, they had and it looked pretty delicious, the rich, red confiture shining brightly on the buttery golden-brown custard.  
“Would you like to have some?”  
Yes, yes he would like very much. He also knew no consequences would come from misbehavior. Yuuri had made quite clear from the beginning that no help would come to him from punishment unless required. It had happened just once, few days prior. Yuuri had woken up with anxiety waiting at the foot of the bed, with the vague memory of a nightmare he couldn’t grasp but surely had made his head dizzy. He buried his face in the pillow, the simple thought of rolling out of bed made him nauseous. Victor’s morning call had lifted his mood just enough for Yuuri to actually go to work and not call in sick. The rest of the day had just worsened. Tasks Yuuri had learned to consider easy, even fun, twisted his stomach with the fear of doing something – everything – wrong. By the afternoon it had become almost impossible for Yuuri to stay focused on pretty much anything.

Only then Yuuri had asked Victor to spank him because he felt like the pain was the only thing that could distract him.

“So?”

Yuuri snapped back to reality.

“Only if I deserve it,” Yuuri said, completely in the game now. He knew he was being good and _how_ that was giving him joy. Victor must have thought the same thing.

“Of course,” he indeed decided, voice low and hoarse. “But one slice only.”

Since Victor said nothing about the size of the slice, Yuuri ordered a big one.

*******

It didn’t matter if others couldn’t understand. It was what Yuuri needed. It was perfect. If only he could eradicate Plisetksy’s words’ from the back of his brain. That little cruel voice repeating that it couldn’t and wouldn’t last; that Victor was only interesting in him because he was a pleasing distraction and he was a novelty. Soon Victor would get tired of him.

_Just like he did before._

The thought alone made Yuuri’s chest hurt.

*******

Yuuri was clenching his phone for dear life, pressing it against his sob-shaken chest. He had set the voice command, so a word would be enough to call Victor wherever he was. Yuuri needed him. He needed his reassuring voice, needed someone who could take part of the blame; tell him he had nothing to worry about and did nothing wrong.  
It had all been fine until the evening when Yuuri had come home from a day of running around the city only to be greeted by the landlord waiting for him on the landing. Yuuri hadn’t even had the time to put his bags down or ask what was wrong when the man had started throwing his anger at him. There had been a problem with the bank, so the rent was still unpaid. The landlord had started screaming about kicking Yuuri out, spurting both racist and homophobic insults. For a moment Yuuri had frozen in place, terrified the other could actually fulfill his threat right away; in the end, however, the man had stepped aside. Yuuri would be given time until morning. Yuuri had had just the presence of mind to fill the keys into the lock.  
It was too late to call the bank, which on Saturday did only the half-day. Yuuri dialed the number for customer service nonetheless. Nobody answered.  
  
In rage, Yuuri had almost thrown the phone across the room, but in the end, he resigned to sitting on the floor holding it in his trembling hands.  
“Victor,” he sobbed with the voice of defeat. The Siri system dialed the call right away. Victor picked up after few rings; Yuuri choked back tears. He muttered something in the speaker.  
“What’s the matter?” Victor asked. He sounded annoyed. Well, he had the right. It was a Saturday night and from the background noise, he seemed to be in some kind of club. Yuuri heard the sound of chatters, beat music and laughter. He probably was having fun with his friends, mind far away from worrying about a man who couldn’t even stand up for himself.  
“I ...” Yuuri stuttered, the word “master” stuck in his throat. But he couldn’t run to Victor any time he had a problem, walking on the thin line between support and dependence.

“I, I, just wanted to remind you that on Monday you have an extra appointment in the afternoon, at 15.30,” he said instead.

“Yeah, thank you. See you on Monday.”

“See you.”

Yuuri closed the call with a resigned sigh. He sniffed, anxiety tears rolling down his cheeks. The phone started buzzing again, courtesy of Phichit’s messages. Yuuri caressed the idea of calling his friend, but Phichit had surely better things to do than listening to him whining. As for his parents, they deserved better than to be bothered already in the morning by a son who couldn’t adult by himself.

He had to calm down and he had to do it alone. Back at the mental facility there was a doctor very fond on a grounding technique based on the five senses. Yuuri guessed he had been using it without noticing for the past weeks, with touch being the prominent sense.  
It always started by finding five things in the room he could see; there was the table before him, slightly on the left; the coat hung on the wall on the left; the light fixture on the ceiling; the laptop left on the couch; and the chairs around the table.  
  
Four things he could feel: the smooth surface of the linoleum floor; the roughness of the wall; the light muslin of the curtains; the slickness of the window glass.  
  
Three things he could hear. Well, there was his heartbeat, still loud enough he could hear it in his ears; his wet and uneven breathing, still broken by late, sporadic sobs; the muffled traffic noise coming from the outside through the little creep in the window.  
  
Two things he could smell. Yuuri wrinkled his nose. There was the acid smell of anxiety sweat; and the lingering smell of stir-fried cooked vegetables from the evening before.  
  
Finally, a thing he could taste. He let his eyes wander across the room, coming to a stop on the tea mug from breakfast.

Slowly his breath regained an almost normal rhythm. He wiped his eyes dry with the hem of his shirt. He sniffed and blew his nose. He felt much calmer now. He was still worried, but he had stopped panicking and the feeling of emptiness in his stomach had been replaced by hunger. He padded to the kitchen and grabbed some chocolate, diet been damned for once. Victor wouldn’t mind: it was self-aftercare after all. Yuuri also poured himself a big glass of cold orange juice. There were some leftover cooked vegetables in the fridge. Yuuri set on the pan to re-heat. In the meanwhile, he opened his laptop, just like he did all those months ago when he had come home for the first time. Also back then he believed he couldn’t go on and instead he had gotten up again. Falling so many times surely had taught him how to not hurt himself so much to not be able to rise back.

He logged into his mail account. He had done the rent payment through the bank online website, thus receiving an e-mail doubling as receipt and confirming the successful transaction. If anything, that receipt would count as proof of his absolutely good faith. No matter how the landlord wanted to scream and threat, throwing his intolerance around: he couldn’t kick Yuuri out.

Yuuri smiled at himself. He did it. He had calmed down all by himself. But without Victor, it wasn’t the same.

The truth was that since Victor had become his dom Yuuri had felt calm like never before like he hadn’t in ages. Victor was caring, soft, attentive, ready to give Yuuri what he needed, the moment he needed; sometimes he even knew what Yuuri required without Yuuri having to actually voice his desires. However, Victor normally insisted for Yuuri to speak up, to “use his words” as he used to say.

 _Use your words_ he purred whether Yuuri wanted a quick spank to calm down from a particularly stressful phone call; or he craved a simple caress, kneeled at Victor’s feet like a faithful dog. It didn’t happen often since Yuuri had to fulfill his job as a secretary and they preferred to keep a low profile, but how Yuuri cherished those moments. He loved them. He needed them.

He needed more. When he was with Victor his anxiety was at bay, a noisy, buzzy sound in the background that Yuuri could ignore if his mind was busy.

*******

Yuuri’s days were now framed by the routine Victor had carefully built around him. It was sunny, summer at its peak; recently Yuuri had taken the habit to change into his formal clothes only once at _Nikiforov’s_ so that sweat couldn’t spoil the expensive fabric. He changed in the bathroom and did the same every evening at the end of his 9 to 5. Or, he had changed in the bathroom until he caught Victor peeking. Pretending to not have noticed, he slowed down his movements, taking his sweet time to unbutton his shirt and to slide the suit pants down his ass. He had glanced over his shoulder, licking his lips in a surge of confidence, as he showed he was still wearing the corset and would do until home. It hadn’t taken much before Victor started requiring for Yuuri to change in his office. Yuuri had been more than happy to comply.

That afternoon Yuuri had just finished peeling off his shirt. He could feel Victor’s stare on his toned back. He swallowed, tracing by chance the clasps on the side of his lace corset. He had been thinking about what he planned to do afterward since morning.

“Am I good, Master?” he asked, turning to face Victor. It was the first time he used the term out loud and the expression on Victor face was priceless. He took a step forward, closing pretty much all the distance between him and Victor.

Yuuri never broke his staring as he sank to his knees, head now tilted back to expose his pale neck and the collar around it, swelled just slightly every time Yuuri’s Adam apple went up and down. He crawled to Victor, licking his lips.

“I want to be good for you, Master,” Yuuri purred, pressing his face against Victor’s crotch. He inhaled, before starting to undo Victor’s pants buttons, looking at him from down below. A pleased smile stretched his lips noticing Victor’s slightly flushed cheeks.

“Yuuri!” Victor growled, breathing between a plea and a warning. Yuuri went for the first option. He started sucking through the boxer’s cloth, already a bit damp with pre-come.

Victor grabbed Yuuri’s hair, fisting raven tufts. He yanked his head. Yuuri had no control. It was good. It made him feel so damn good.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Victor snarled. With his free hand, he pulled his cock out.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, as if necessary. Yuuri complied. Victor set immediately a brutal pace, snapping his hips forward. There was the sound of cloth against naked skin. The metal of the belt buckle was cold against Yuuri’s cheek. Soon tears pricked at the corners of Yuuri’s eyes. He focused on nothing but on staying still and breathing through his nose to prevent himself from gagging.

When Victor was done, Yuuri stood there, savoring the thick bitterness of come on his tongue. A trail had dripped down his chin. He polished it with the back of his hand.

“Why did you do that?”

Victor was now staring at him almost in horror. He backed up to his chair and flopped on it. He pinched the bridge of the nose. Yuuri stood up.

“I wanted to be good,” he explained, matter of factly. He waited for a word of appreciation, maybe even a touch, that didn’t come.

“You may go,” Victor instead dismissed him. Yuuri gathered his things without saying a word.

The day after a package was delivered to him. It contained a new corset. From just one look Yuuri knew it was a unique, expensive piece. When he tried it on, it fitted to perfection. But Victor stopped asking him to change in his office. He even stopped peeking at him.

*******

Yuuri drummed on the desk, waiting for an important call that should arrive any moment now. He was nervous, no use in denying it. Victor’s sudden back off was sending thrills of doubts and frustrations all over his body, exploding in a non-stop movement of his fingers and feet on the floor. Anxiety was dripping in his belly, cumulating in a slow torture.

Victor still told him what to eat and how to dress, but nothing more. He had even forbidden Yuuri from calling him master. He didn’t summon Yuuri in his office anymore, shifting on Milla a good portion of tasks that had been Yuuri’s like bringing him coffee. If Victor had to ask him something, he did it from a distance. Yuuri was going mad craving the lost touch. Sexual frustrations made his skin cringe. It was painful, physically, and mentally exhausting, with no amount of boring bureaucracy able to distract him.  
The only consolation was the sureness that for Victor was the same. If Yuuri had changed thanks to his being a sub, he surely had become a little more vengeful. Maybe he had always been. He discovered that teasing Victor with a sly, almost cruel, smirk on his lips brought him great pleasure. Well, since Victor had never formally forbidden him from wearing the collar or the corset, Yuuri continued to put them on. At work, he always assured to unbutton a bit of his collar shirt lamenting the hot weather, just enough for the leather strap underneath to peek out. When he bent to pick something up from the floor, he made sure that Victor noticed the corset.  
Yuuri knew that Victor knew. He knew every time the other locked himself in his office, ordering not to bother him. He knew Victor jerked off to his relief thinking about him. Yuuri knew Victor was no better than him.  
  
After two weeks of this Victor finally gave up. Yuuri had to fight with himself to suppress a satisfied smile. He could almost taste the victory, sweet with just a hint of bitterness. He stepped into Victor’s office with a smug expression.  
“You’re fired,” Victor cut to the chase. Yuuri froze in disbelief, with the worst and yet most unforeseen outcome coming to reality. He swallowed, hands clenching. Not even a year prior he would have gone to pieces; now, however, he was a different person. His anxiety hadn’t disappeared and Yuuri could already feel the familiar symptoms building up; but he also had the confidence to keep them under control.

“Why?” he managed to ask.  
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Victor replied with superiority. It was false, a pretend, and Yuuri knew it. “Why?” he thus insisted. “You can’t fire me on the whim. I can report you.”  
“You won’t.”  
“Try me.”  
The air was so full of tension Yuuri wouldn’t be surprised if it had started crackling with electricity. He stared at Victor. He swore he wouldn’t look away. If by any chance Victor had woken up in a bad mood or with the sudden desire of having a rebellious sub to reprimand, Yuuri was ready to indulge in it.

“Your work is sloppy,” Victor finally snapped. The old Yuuri would believe such false statement without a second thought. The new Yuuri knew better. Victor had taught him to love and have confidence in himself. “My work has been perfect. You have never missed an appointment in months. Your agenda has doubled in efficiency.”  
In no way, Victor could deny it. So he attacked him on other fronts **.** “I don’t like your clothes!”  
“You told me to dress like that!” Yuuri hissed. Standing there he felt anxiety being slowly replaced by a sentiment he hadn’t experienced in a while: anger. He was angry with himself for having been so foolish to believe it could last. He was angry with Victor for being such a coward.

“You’re the worst sub I’ve ever had,” Victor insisted.  
Yuuri inhaled from his nose, digging nails into palms. His eyes remained dry.  
He had done some research. If Victor’s past was a bit of a mystery, his adult life wasn’t. He loved social media too much to keep private. Besides, Yuuri could count on Phichit’s help if he needed to know something maybe more secret. From what they had discovered, Victor was a habitué of some BDSM forums and chat rooms and was known to be a good, albeit capricious dom, who had the bad reputation of not liking commitment. No past sub had lasted more than two months; nobody besides Yuuri.

“I’m the best and you know it!” he snapped still not breaking eye contact. He was adamant not to.

“Get out.”

“Not until you tell me why you want to fire me” Yuuri’s voice raised in tone.

“Get out, it’s an order.”

“I don’t have to obey you when you’re acting like this.”

“Do you want to be punished?” Victor warned, voice low and dangerous. It caused a jolt of excitement down Yuuri’s spine, something he would’ve never imagined to experience. Adrenaline pumped through his veins.

“And what if I do? You’re too coward to do it.”  
  
Victor swooped against Yuuri in no time, pinning him on the wall, both wrists grabbed in one hand. He rutted on him, scraping with his teeth against the tender skin of Yuuri’s neck. A thigh forced Yuuri’s legs apart. Yuuri’s chest roared with joy.  
And then Victor backed off.  
“See, this is wrong. I’m wrong. You’re fired. Get out. I don’t want to see you anymore.”  
  
Later Yuuri knew he had obeyed, finding himself at home; but the way taken and what had happened right after were nothing but a blur.

***

Yuuri fell into a gray apathy, the world colorless and soundless. For days he barely exited from his bed, let alone his flat. The money Victor had given him after the layoff - Yuuri had found the sum in his bank account at the first check - would allow him to survive for some months. He would pay the rent, the bills; even indulge in some comfort vanities while looking for a new job.  
In truth, a new job wasn’t Yuuri first priority. Blame it on the money Victor had given him. Blame it on the routine to which Victor had accustomed him.  
Yuuri had started being so used to Victor’s morning tips for clothing that the day after his firing he waited for more than an hour for his phone to ring. Inside he had hoped Victor would’ve changed his mind; maybe the firing was just a bad dream, a cruel joke, a test. Yeah, Yuuri thought, soon Victor would call him, pretending to propose which outfit he should wear; he would compliment Yuuri on his patience and devotion.  
The phone hadn’t rung; nor did it the day after and the day after that. At the end of the week, Yuuri had resigned himself to the fact that it was over. Months spent in building up a nice routine, learning to love himself, to find a comfort zone, all thrown out the window. All gone.  
Since just seeing the clothes he had bought under Victor’s command hurt Yuuri with a pang of nostalgia in the chest, he hid them at the bottom of his closet. Yuuri’s old clothes were baggy for his current body, made for hiding shapes instead valorizing them; however he had started again with his comfort eating, so they would soon fit perfectly. Goodbye fancy, fashionable suits; welcome back comfy sweaters. Yuuri stopped wearing the corset. It carried too many memories; besides, it was too tight now. Yuuri had almost thrown it away, but in the end, he wasn’t strong enough. Instead, he burst into tears hiding his face in the familiar fabric.  
  
Anyway, Yuuri wasn’t interested in finding a new job; not as much as he needed a new dom. He started frequenting specialized websites; he signed up for a meeting website; he even opened a YouTube channel as Cam Boy, never to be used.

All the encounters he had in the following weeks turned out completely disastrous. If Victor really had doubts about his morality or thought that something was wrong with him, it was only because he didn’t know what kind of people were out there. Of this Yuuri was sure. Victor had been a gentleman, never pushing, never harassing, and never forcing something on Yuuri saying he would eventually like it. If he had had harder kinks, he did a very good job at hiding them.

All the contrary of the new men Yuuri met, listening to each one with an increasing sense of uneasiness. One guy was fixated on butt-plugs; when he had revealed he was wearing one at the moment, Yuuri had quickly taken his leave. Another had a thing for spanking and seemed to have completely forgotten the after-care part. He patronized Yuuri for hours, declaiming the truthfulness of his words; Yuuri had to fake having to go to the toilet and bribed a waiter to allow him exit from the backdoor. He had had the strong desire to bleach his brain. Another one had been clearly one of those kids harassed in school who had not one inch of charisma, someone who promised every freedom only to hide the fact that he actually didn’t know what to do.

One suitor was nicer – well, in comparison -, nice enough for Yuuri to try to go on a date with him once; in turned out he had an Asian fetish. Yuuri never showed up again.

*******

The situation on the job side wasn’t much brighter. Under Phichit’s suggestion, Yuuri had done a job interview for a place as a bartender in an anonymous fast food place near home; he had gotten the job, but after having been pampered by the tranquillity of _Nikiforov’s_ the impact of the noisy environment was harsh. Still, it was a job.  
The old Yuuri wouldn’t have lasted a week in such an ambiance with angry - and hungry - teenagers, workers at lunch break for which a minute of delay was disastrous and capricious children with their bossy mothers. The new Yuuri had enough self-esteem not to crumble under the pressure. Sometimes he even imagined it was all a game set up by Victor, priding himself when he didn’t snap or burst into tears before a rude customer. Nonetheless, he arrived home at the end of the day mentally and physically drained; the latent, strange mix of sadness, anger and sexual frustration didn’t help.  
Mari noticed it in no time.  
  
“Don’t treat me like a fool, you are not happy. You look like-” she paused to find a kinder term “You look terrible.” 

Yuuri paid little to no attention to the conversation, his brain lightening up just enough to answer some monosyllables to Mari’s increasingly pressing questions. But, as said, his sister wasn’t a person Yuuri could fool easily. 

“I’m fine!” he repeated like a broken record, in vain hope to close the call until further notice. His tone was harsher than expected. He bowed his head.

“Sorry, I snapped,” he rushed to apologize. Mari shrugged like if it wasn’t a big deal.

“Why don’t you come home? Mom and dad would be overwhelmed with joy to have you here. Come home, little bro. It can help you.”

Yes, maybe it was time; time to admit he had failed. Independence wasn’t for everyone. It wasn’t for him. In the span of a few days, without even being fully aware of what he was doing, Yuuri found himself with a plane ticket, a suitcase full of most of his clothes and some vague plan of what to do with the other belongings. A closed door behind his back; the keys left at the reception one last time; his Japanese passport safe in his wallet. The flight would be in nine hours.  
He had almost arrived at the airport when something snapped in his head. As if in a movie scene he called the bus driver to stop, jumped down, and ran toward the town. He didn’t think about anything but to run. Later he would notice he left his hand-case on the bus; for now, he could only think about his feet against the pavement, lungs burning in his chest. 

He ran barely paying attention to the other pedestrians and cars, crossing the street haphazardly. Cars honked with anger behind him. He hadn’t time to hear them, let alone stop and apologize.

 _Nikiforov’s_ was on the other side of the city. When Yuuri saw the building the office was in appearing in the distance he had barely enough air to speak in the intercom when someone asked, “Who is it?” 

The door clicked open. He rushed up the stairs. Sweat was plastering his fringe to his brow and fogging his glasses. His shirt was wet; his breathing pattern uneven. He put a hand on his right side, slightly above the hip where the liver was, massaging the area to soothe the pain.  
“Yuuri, what are you doing here,” Milla asked him when he hurried inside, standing before the desk with his hands on his knees.  
“Is Victor with a client?” Yuuri panted, catching his breath from the long run with a broken voice.  
“No,” Milla answered. “Yuuri, what is it?” she asked again, but he silenced her with his following question. “Is he alone?”  
“Y-yes. Yuuri, are you alright. You don’t look good,” Milla insisted with concern. Again Yuuri didn’t answer. He made a quick gesture over his shoulder and grabbed the doorknob.  
  
Victor was typing something on his smartphone, the clicking of the virtual keyboard as the only sound breaking the silence.  
“Yuuri, what are you doing here?” he asked lifting his head. Yuuri took a step forward. He placed his hands on the desk’s edge. For a moment he almost towered over Victor who was sitting. It didn’t last much, as Victor pushed back his chair with wheels and stood up. They faced each other. Yuuri clenched his fists, nails biting into flesh, looking for some courage.  
“I love you. I need you and I don’t want a life without you.”  
“You deserve better,” Victor groaned.  
“I don’t want better. I want you,” Yuuri protested. His voice was calm despite everything; shouting had never been part of his character. Besides he wasn’t angry nor he wanted to beg.

“Kneel,” Victor ordered out of thin air. He was serious, body and tone adjusting to when he entered his role as a dom. That was enough for Yuuri to drop to the ground. He fell like he was weightless, gravity winning over his whole body. His knees collided with the carpeted floor with a soft “thud”.

“Stay put,” Victor continued. Yuuri tightened his muscles. “Don’t move until my return.”  
Yuuri obeyed not even moving his head for nodding. At his back, he heard the noise of the door closing. It was Friday afternoon.

The first to arrive was Milla. “I brought you some food,” she told Yuuri, handing him a cheese bagel. Yuuri didn’t show any sign he wanted to move. Milla gave him a concerned look.  
“Yuuri, listen, you have to eat,” she tried to talk him into taking at least some bits of the food she brought.

“Victor told me not to move,” Yuuri whispered almost not moving his lips, voice rough in his throat. Milla was about to say something else but Yuuri wasn’t listening anymore, eyes fixed on a distant point. He needed all his energy and all his concentration if he wanted to make Victor proud. Answering Mlila had been enough of disobedience.  
“Ok. Well, I leave it here,” Milla resigned, placing the bagel on the desk.  
  
The second was, surprisingly, Yuri Plisetsky. Right away, he informed Yuuri of two things. First, Yuuri was the king of Dumb Town. Second, he had called Yuuri’s parents.  
“Because someone had to do it,” Plisetsky snarled, before putting a greasy, brown paper-bag under Yuuri’s nose. Yuuri made no sign of wanting to take it. Plisetsky shook it a bit harder.  
“Phirozki filled with that dish you like so much according to Milla. Do you know how fucking difficult it is to prepare them?”  
Yuuri could easily imagine that. He felt a sudden burn in his chest as if an invisible hand was squeezing his heart; Plisetsky was worried for him, he didn’t even know him and was worried.  
“Whatever, I’ll leave them here.”  
The smell of the pirozhki was sweet torture. Yuuri swallowed saliva. 

  
The third were Yuuri’s parents and sister, plus Minako-sensei, shortly followed by Phichit. Yuuri’s mom had brought a bowl of the best mood lifter Yuuri knew. Yuuri’s nose twitched at that familiar, mouth-watering smell. He hadn’t eaten for at least a day now and, having had a weaker will, Yuuri would’ve thrown himself on the katsudon. But his will was strong and Victor told him not to move. He looked at his family and felt both sorry and grateful for their concerned looks. He knew he wasn’t at his best. His knees were hurting for the long contact against the floor. His back was killing him. He was covered in the sweat and he stank since, well, he couldn’t go to the bathroom.  
Mari crouched to be at Yuuri’s level. “You don’t have to do this, lil’ bro,” she told him, staring into his eyes. His parents echoed. “Come on, let’s go home,” Mari insisted. She tried to take Yuuri’s hand and he flinched as if she had pinched him.  
  
Phichit adopted a less delicate approach.  
“Sorry Yuuri, you know I loathe violence, but as your friend, I have the right to put some sense in that head of yours.”  
Said this, he grabbed Yuuri’s waist and yanked, using his own body as leverage to try to put Yuuri on his feet. Yuuri started to scream in response, fighting back with all he had. He may have been debilitated for not having eaten recently, but his will was strong. And Phichit was much shorter and smaller than him.  
“It’s no use,” Mari sighed at such show. She put a hand on Phichit’s shoulder to make him stop. She didn’t want her parents to witness a similar spectacle. Yuuri’s mom looked at Minako, Yuuri’s old dance teacher and her friends from schooldays. “Always told you your son is a stubborn one,” Minako commented; not that she didn’t try to coax Yuuri out of a similar foolishness.

Yuuri didn’t move an inch.

By the end of the second day Yuuri’s stomach and back muscles were hurting so bad he had started to hallucinate stars dancing before his eyes; as for his legs, the pain and needles had turned into numbness in the background due to the prolonged immobility. It felt like his limbs didn’t belong to him anymore. His tongue felt gross; his mouth kept salivating in an attempt to compensate for the lack of water. His eyelids were heavy with sleep; sometimes he dozed off for some seconds before jerking back to consciousness. He dug nails into flesh to stay awake. He wouldn’t move until Victor’s come back. Victor would come back.  
The air was stale, impregnated with a mix of smells: sweat, fried meat, onion, cheese. It made Yuuri’s mouth water and his nose wrinkle.  
  
New people come to visit for checking on Yuuri and bringing him some more food. They tried to make him change his mind; now there was even an anchor from a local TV come to investigate.  
Then there were the Nishigoris, Yuuri’s childhood friends; husband and wife with their three little twin daughters in tow. The girls rushed to run and jump in circles around Yuuri as soon as they saw him. They spoke over each other in a mix of excited questions; it was all a game for them, a novelty. They even tried to imitate Yuuri in standing still, only to get tired not even five minutes after with their small bodies bouncing with energy.  
  
If there was something Yuuri came to notice during his test was how many people cared for him; he had never seen that always thinking to be a bother. Instead, now the atmosphere was everything but tense. From his position, Yuuri couldn’t see what was happening over the door; but it was open and so he could hear it pretty good. All people had arranged camping at _Nikiforov’s_ , bringing food and drink to share, mats and covers. They chat and exchanged opinion. Yuuri heard voices he would never imagine to hear in a similar situation; Doctor Mitchell and the young receptionist and the bar manager and even the nice waitress from the coffee shop Yuuri went to sometimes because it had good WI-FI.  
  
At dawn of the fourth day Yuuri’s body had gone slump. His head was dangling; even keeping awake was a struggle he was slowing losing. His mind was spinning; his stomach gurgled non-stop. His tongue had swollen in his now dry mouth. His whole body felt like it was on fire.  
But Victor had told him not to move until his return. Victor would return.  
  
When Victor’s car stopped next to the building all but Yuuri ran to the window. Later Yuuri would discover how all the people in the building had divided as Victor walked through, all glancing with threat. He also learned that Victor had checked on him through a hidden camera.  
Victor was before Yuuri in a few long strides; he was holding a giant plastic glass of milkshake.  
“Though someone here had already acted so that you wouldn’t starve,” he commented with a small laugh to crack the tension. Nobody else followed his hilarity. Yuuri would’ve if he had had the strength. Instead, as if Victor’s presence had cut the last string of Yuuri’s will, the man collapsed on the floor.

“Yuuri, I’m sorry,” Victor said. He knelt down to wrap an arm around Yuuri’s waist and the other under his knees to scoop him up. Victor’s arms were strong. Yuuri had no doubt they wouldn’t let him fall; in the remote hypothesis that would happen, if Victor had let his grip slip, he would still catch him back before Yuuri could hit the ground. If Yuuri hit the ground, Victor would help him back on his feet. If Yuuri fell under the ground, Victor would stretch a hand out for Yuuri to climb in the light again. Victor would catch him no matter what. Yuuri rested his head against Victor’s shoulder, trying to keep awake.  
“You did great,” Victor praised.  
Yuuri smiled softly and he slurped a sip from the milkshake. That much he could do. His legs and arms and whole body hurt terribly for having been still for too long; as soon as circulation returned, his limbs felt all pins and needles. He gritted his teeth in discomfort, holding to Victor for dear life. It felt safe. It felt home. Yuuri let himself slide into unconsciousness, strong with the conviction he didn’t have to worry about anything, not as long as Victor would be at his side. 

  
When Yuuri woke up he was lying on a couch in what he supposed must be Victor’s living room. Victor had shed him of his sweaty, wet clothes and wrapped him in a fluffy and dry bathrobe. He was sitting on the edge of the couch so that Yuuri’s feet were in his lap.  
Yuuri blinked. He tried to speak but his throat was sore from thirst; he so gestured to Victor to ask something to drink. Victor bowed his head in comprehension; moments later he was back from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice. He held Yuuri’s nape and back to help him drink. Once he had emptied the glass, Yuuri cleared his throat again with a little cough.  
“Was I good?” He asked, voice dripping with expectation. Victor caressed his left cheek. “You did great,” he praised. Yuuri basked in the pleasant sensation.

“I’ll set up a hot bath,” Victor informed him, carding fingers through Yuuri’s raven hair. Yuuri murmured something in approval, snuggling a bit more against Victor. He whined a little when the other gently pushed him aside to actually stand up and go to the bathroom; but then the thought of a steamy, soapy, scented bath made the wait worthwhile.  
When Victor came back to inform Yuuri the bath was ready, Yuuri had once again slipped back into a state of half-sleep. As Victor picked him up, he lazily hooked his legs around his hips, ankles crossed to secure the knot.  
  
The bath Victor had fetched stood up to Yuuri’s expectation. White foam filled the tub so much that water was barely visible. Yuuri inhaled: lavender. Hot steam had fogged the mirror above the sink. Warm air was almost thick. Victor slid inside quickly to prevent cold air from entering. He placed Yuuri on the bathtub edge never letting him go, maneuvering him just enough to peel the bathrobe off. Yuuri shivered in his nakedness, feeling suddenly vulnerable. He grabbed the fabric of Victor’s shirt as the other helped him slide into the water, which was of the perfect temperature, hot without hurting. Yuuri let out a satisfied sigh, almost a moan, resting his head on the back of the bathtub. Victor had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He smiled with affection as he caressed the water just above Yuuri’s stomach. Yuuri’s reached out to grab his hand, intertwining fingers together.  
“Love you,” he murmured with a sleepy tone. The words felt just right in his mouth and Yuuri meant every syllable, every vowel, and every consonant. He couldn't say for certain when it happened when his feeling toward Victor transformed in love; still, it had. It was all that mattered. Victor squeezed his hand in silent response.  
  
Yuuri later would remember little about the bath. He knew for sure that at some point Victor had washed his hair and body, wrapped him back in a new, warm and fluffy towel and held him almost for dear life, carrying him bridal-style. He also remembered Victor giving him some granola bars; slowly his strength came back.  
Victor had brought him to his bedroom, where Yuuri curled on the bed as soon as he touched the mattress.  
It was late evening when he opened his eyes, fully rested. He rolled on the other side. Victor wasn’t there, but before Yuuri could start wondering where he was, noises of cutlery and pans came from the kitchen. Then there was the noise of socked feet padding on the wooden floor.  
“Oh, You’re awake, feeling better?” Victor asked standing in the doorframe. Yuuri nodded. Victor had changed into home clothes, washed out sweat pants low on his hips and a large T-shirt with a low V-shaped collar that underlined his clavicles.  
Yuuri felt desire pooling down in his belly and groin. He believed nothing could be sexier than Victor in a sharp suit, but now he was being proved wrong. His breath hitched in his throat.  
“Come here,” he commanded reaching out his arms. The mattress creaked when Victor crawled on it. Not saying a word, Yuuri pulled him closer in a fierce kiss, surprising even himself with his own boldness. Victor whimpered in surprise. He cradled Yuuri’s head and adjusted it just slightly in a better angle. He hovered above him, hands resting at each side of Yuuri’s head.  
“You want this?” Victor asked a breath from his lips, voice drenched with attention and sweetness. Yuuri pouted his lips out demanding for a new kiss. “Absolutely.”  
  
Victor resumed kissing him with kindness, hands moving on his hips, strong as devotion. They would leave dents the morning after. Yuuri couldn’t be happier. They were proof that he belonged to Victor as much as Victor belonged to him. They were made for each-others, two jigsaw pieces perfectly framing into each other.  
Victor made love to him with tender slowness, waiting when Yuuri needed for him to wait, guiding him, meeting him where he had to. 

Yuuri basked in the orgasm afterglow, body still pressed against Victor’s. He put his lips to the other’s ear. “I was wondering if now you could tell me some more about you.”

Surely Victor did. He told Yuuri about his childhood in St. Petersburg, the noise in the family’s factory, the whistle of the ships in the harbor, the frozen lake where families went to skate in winter. He told about riding his brand new bicycle through the city streets to the ice rink, a ten-year old boy priding himself of how glossy and beautiful his new bike was; until a car had crashed into him, sending him jolting in the air and then down onto the hard concrete, his legs twisted in an unnatural angle, his pelvis broken, his backbone damaged.

Victor had spent months in a wheelchair and then learning to walk again, but the first time he went back to the ice and attempted a simple, single toe-loop his whole body screamed in pain. He had stood up again and tried back, again and again. He had tried until he couldn't see straight through the tears. He kept trying even though he realized it was hopeless because the second he stopped trying he knew it was over. He kept trying even though his coach was screaming at him from the side of the rink, first shouting he would make things worse than they already were and then begging him to stop. Although he didn’t need a cane to walk, figure skating was a totally different matter. More than his legs the problem was Victor’s hips. He had heard about gymnasts and dancers being forced out of their career for an injury similar to his; living it was a totally different matter. At only eleven years old he was out of competition. Forever.

“Why did you decide to come to America?” Yuuri asked with curiosity.

“Good law schools.”

“Why did you decide to study Law?”

“Because the man who hit me never paid. I didn’t want it to happen again,” Victor went on. Yuuri stood in silence processing the info. If he hadn’t noticed it before while working for Victor, this new knowledge would have cemented his suspicions. He heard and knew Victor was a very good lawyer, with tons of clients, but his law firm was small and his prices way lower than others of the same category. Maybe Yuuri had simply wanted to ignore that Victor couldn't have possibly afforded all the fancy presents Victor had bought him. He pointed it out to Victor who shrugged.

“My family’s rich. I’m in debt with them. But it was worth it.”

  
Yuuri sat cross-legged on the bed, looking down. He pinched some flesh from his belly and let out a deep sigh.  
“Something wrong, darling?” Victor asked, sliding his arms under Yuuri’s and placing his hands on the others.  
“I gained weight again,” Yuuri explained. As Victor proceeded to tell him he looked good notwithstanding, he huffed, “But the nice clothes you made me buy don’t fit anymore.”  
Victor placed a kiss on Yuuri’s nape. “We’ll buy new ones. Clothes for when you’re slim, clothes for when you’re chubby. I’ll buy you a whole shop.”  
Victor beamed with enthusiasm. To underline his words he even pinched Yuuri’s belly flesh between index and thumb. Yuuri giggled and squirmed trying to get free.  
“Stop it, that tickles,” he protested in between laughs. In the end, Victor stopped with his sweet torture only to resume peppering feathery soft kisses all over Yuuri’s body, cherishing every inch of it. Then Victor grabbed again the lube bottle from where he had previously tossed it on the mattress, agitating it under Yuuri’s nose in a silent request.  
“Go on. Let’s go on a second round,” Yuuri consented with a sigh that sounded almost like a purr, letting his head fell on the cushion. He gasped when Victor palmed him between his legs, working open his still loose hole. Yuuri let go, abandoning himself into Victor manhandling him. His second orgasm was stronger than the first; his eyes almost rolled in the back of his head and his vision went white.  
  
“You know we don’t have to do it like this every time, right? I can take something harder,” Yuuri teased Victor. Victor chuckled, leaning to brush his lips against Yuuri’s.  
“Of course, dear. Whatever you want.”  
“Then please tell me you’ll be my dom forever. Tell me you won’t push me away anymore,” Yuuri almost begged, the wound in his heart still fresh. Victor backed with both his body and mind.  
“I can’t.”  
Yuuri stared, doubts and disbelief already looking for fertile ground to grow. “Why? I want this. I want you. I’ve already told you, I need you.”  
Victor shook his head. “You’re able to stand by yourself. You don’t need me,” he countered. But Yuuri was determined to not buy any of that. He propped up a bit on his elbows. He frowned with determination.  
“I know I can stand by myself and I don’t care. I don’t want to stay alone. I need you more than you know. Please try to understand.”  
Victor splayed a hand on Yuuri’s chest. “Yuuri, I want to stay with you.”  
“Then why you don’t want to be my dom? Am I not a good sub?” Yuuri insisted. Victor’s hand was still warm and it sent sparkles down his spine. 

“You’re the best sub I’ve ever and will ever have.”

“Then why?”  
“Because I want to be more.”  
Yuuri still couldn’t understand a whim of where Victor was going with all of that. He threw Victor a pleading look, silently begging to not leave him hanging up like that.

“I want to be your husband,” Victor stated as a matter of fact out of nowhere.

Well, that was unexpected. Yuuri gaped on thin air like a dumb fish, his brain trying to process some answer, any answer without much success.  
“What,” he finally managed to ask.  
Victor brought Yuuri’s hands to his lips, before jumping down the bed. He knelt like in the best cheesy movie. “Yuuri Katsuki, Will you marry me?”  
  
Later Yuuri knew he had said yes, because a ring was resting on his right ring finger, glimmering in the morning light, but for now, he just blabbered silent tears of joy. 

*******

“Let me help you, love.”  
Yuuri couldn’t help but smile fondly hearing those words. He stopped his attempt to tie the complicate fastening on the back of the corset and turned around to give his back to Victor.  
“Which jacket should I wear?” He asked while his husband did the fastening with ease and expertise, eyes not even focused on the criss-crossed strings.

“The light grey one,” Victor answered without skipping a beat. “With the dark blue tie,” he added. Yuuri hummed his approval. The familiar constriction of the corset made him feel at ease. Others had a security blanket. Yuuri had a corset. He opened the bedside table’s second drawer, picking a round object. He gave it to Victor, exposing his neck. It was part of their morning routine, except for when Yuuri was wearing low-collared shirts; but that happened on rare occasions.  
Victor closed the leather collar almost with reverence, turning Yuuri around soon after to cup his cheeks and press a kiss on his lips. Yuuri opened his mouth into it, grabbing the cloth of Victor’s shirt. He moaned around his husband’s warm tongue. 

“You’re gonna be late for work,” Victor reminded him breaking the kiss. Yuuri whined at the loss. He pouted. “Why can’t we work together?” he protested, sneaking yet another kiss from Victor. Sometimes it was like a drug.  
Not long after their marriage, Victor had convinced him to find a new job, something that could truly valorize his abilities and knowledge. When Yuuri had lamented that his college degree wasn’t that much requested on the job market, Victor had had nothing of it.  
“When something doesn’t exist one has to invent it,” he said, his voice both teasing and commanding. The kind of tone Yuuri had no choice but to obey.  
In the end, with a bit of help from Phichit he found employment as a tutor at the local community college; and in the meanwhile, he kept checking at the local museum waiting for job appliances to be open in the Japan dedicated area.  
It wasn’t perfect, but it was good. It was a start  
  
“You’re eating out today, right?” Victor asked once they were both fully clothed as Yuuri set up the coffee brewer for Victor and the electric kettle for his morning tea. Yuuri nodded.  
“Then I’ll have to call you to keep you in check,” Victor teased, wrapping his arms around Yuuri and nuzzling the thin strip of skin above his collar. Yuuri giggled his “ _yes”_. Victor’s hair tickled his ears. He turned his head over his shoulder to brush again his lips on Victor’s. He would’ve indulged into it a bit more if a whiny bark hadn’t drawn his attention. Both him and Victor burst into laughter when Victor’s poodle head-butted him, feigning offense.

“You jealous girl!” Victor exclaimed, kneeling down to pat the dog on the head. “We didn’t forget about you. How could we?” he soothed, caressing the poodle’s soft fur. Yuuri smiled at the scene.  
He was happy.  
  
And most important, he was calm.


End file.
